Difficulties
by AsWeAreNow
Summary: America decides he’s going to kill himself. Of course, on the day he’s going to do it, a lot of people reach out to him. He realises that suicide is much more difficult than he thought. Rated M for suicide. Please keep yourself safe.


America was doing okay.

Or at least he would be. At the moment, he was trying to figure the best spot to kill himself in. The problem was that he didn't have any friends or anything, and nobody lived close by, so he didn't know who would find him. Probably authorities— some presidents became so pissed off when he was late that they'd send escorts to go get him, even if he was just a few minutes late.

But then, this most recent president didn't care much. Not to mention that nothing was really happening; nothing where the President would "value the opinion of a fucking nineteen year old" as he'd put it.

And then of course, there was another World Meeting coming up. If he didn't show up, they'd look for him, as he would be the host.

True, he could just wait, but he didn't really feel like it.

He took several trips around his house, which was the most exercise he'd gotten all day. Usually he might work out, but he hadn't been sleeping well recently, and he'd been too exhausted to leave his room other than to take a shower. He hadn't even eaten, and it was about ten in the evening. It was a bit too late to eat anyway.

He finally decided that no, he could not commit suicide in his house. Maybe he'd rent out a motel instead.

(Linebreak.)

Two days later, America was sitting on a motel bed. There was a carefully selected handgun on the nightstand.

He put the gun to his mouth— blowing his brains out in any other way would've been too movie-esc, you didn't see such gory things as shooting yourself in the mouth in Hollywood anymore— and tried to stick it in.

The first thing he noticed was how large it was. Hell, even he, the bloody gun expert of the Nations, had always underestimated how it would feel. He was reminded of the two years he'd had braces once braces had become a thing, and how he'd had to get his mouth stretched uncomfortably wide. His lips had always been dry, and he'd always cried during it; but alas, he would do anything for his youthful beauty, and beauty was pain.

Now, he reflected, it wouldn't matter. It wasn't like he would have an open casket.

_God. Why the fuck is it so big?_

_Hahah, gay._

America was certainly losing his mind.

The barrel really was quite big, though. He waited to get adjusted to it, pain pricking his lips a bit. His lips were still fucking dry.

As to why he was giving himself the opportunity to get adjusted to it, he didn't know. It wasn't like he'd have to practice.

The second thing he noticed was the way the gun tasted. It tasted bitter and slightly metallic (or maybe that was his mouth, bleeding as it normally did whenever one of his more important politicians said dumb shit).

His phone rang. He sighed, took the gun out of his mouth, put it on the nightstand, and picked it up. _May as well grace one last person with my heavenly presence_, he thought wryly. _Maybe the others will say they were lucky, to be the last person I ever talked to._

He was already thinking of himself in past tense.

It was a FaceTime call, actually.

He sighed, not really bothering to check who it was. Maybe it was Cuba or North Korea, who would certainly endorse his death. Maybe it was Russia or Ukraine— he was buddy-buddy with Russia and Ukraine didn't exactly like him at the moment, but they were in a shitshow together (_not much longer_)— and they'd be indifferent, basically taunting him into committing suicide.

Then, that was assuming he was honest with himself and everyone else, and he wouldn't be because he never was.

"Hi, Alfred F. Jones speaking," Alfred said, flopping onto his bed.

"Hi, America. How are you?" A crisp British accent came through.

America picked up the phone, frowning at it. "Why are you calling me?" He asked.

"I just wanted to talk to you. How are you?" England asked.

"I'm doing great. I was about to kill myself and then you called me," America said sarcastically. One final truth, and England wouldn't know until he was gone. England just laughed. "Why are you calling me?" America pressed again. "What do you want to talk to me about?"

"Nothing. I just wanted to talk to you," England said. "It's been awhile since I've seen you. I just wanted to check on you."

America didn't know what to say.

"So— are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'm okay," America mumbled. "Why do you want to check on me? It's not like you to care."

"I don't know. It's just been awhile." England frowned. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah."

"You're lying."

"You always think I'm lying."

England didn't say anything.

"Anyway, thanks for checking on me, but I really gotta go. I've got a meeting with some old friends." America shifted uncomfortably and then hanged up.

(Linebreak.)

He sat with the gun wedged between his teeth again when he suddenly got a text.

It was from Japan. '_Hello, America.'_

_Hi._

_'We should hang out.' _

America sat, staring at the text for awhile. Japan never wanted to hang out. They hadn't talked much in over thirty years.

Another text: '_It's been too long.'_

_I don't have much time these days. _

_'Oh, okay.'_

America didn't know how to respond to that. He almost wanted to say, _Some other time? _but that'd be cruel.

(Linebreak.)

He sat on the bed, gun in his lap. It had been twenty minutes since Japan had texted him. He was back to thinking. _I should shoot myself and get this over with._

America wasn't feeling extraordinarily suicidal. It wasn't even the sort of depression he'd had before, back when everyday had been horrible and he'd been close to tears constantly. He just didn't want to eat anymore, and he couldn't fucking sleep, and he was getting frustrated. He couldn't will himself to do anything except sit in various parts of his house, reading and using his phone and planning trips he'd never actually schedule.

He knew that he was going to die, even if it wasn't obvious. He was tired all the time, but that was normal these days. He knew he should eat, but he just wasn't hungry, and he could barely force himself to eat more than a can of soup or a pack of ramen or a tortilla each day. He couldn't even stomach any decently-sized meal anymore.

America had never realized how much time he spent eating, and how much joy he took from it. That sounded fucked, but after a day of not really eating he realized just how bored he'd been.

America wasn't feeling extraordinarily suicidal, but there were three reasons he was going through with it. He had made a list of three, because he found himself making more and more lists, as a way to organize the endless torrent of hellish thoughts.

And here was the list, probably on an otherwise unremarkable sheet of paper in one of many binders in his house:

1\. He was so, so alone. (America obviously hadn't written in the third person, he was just indulging in an incredibly dark fantasy where they found his writing and they actually thought it was decent— decent enough to mull over it, anyway.) He'd felt some sort of obvious disconnect with his country recently. America had become incredibly depressed, incredibly apathetic, in the span of just a few short days. His country hadn't went through something so drastic, so he didn't see why he was. America had never felt too alone. Disconnected from the other nations, certainly, but he knew that he represented something bigger than himself. Soon enough, he'd seen that importance disappear. He was nothing.

and

2\. He'd been looking forward to this for a long time now. While he wasn't feeling particularly suicidal, he knew that the feeling would return. Just yesterday, he'd been incredibly depressed, in that unconventional way that said he just didn't really care. America knew that he would want to kill himself. It had been some sick sort of fantasy since the early 1900s, really. It had been a plan, a sense of control, for so long that dying any other way or just being _happy _would feel wrong.

Besides, he was already at the motel. His plan had gone this far. At this point the only option was to commit suicide.

3\. Nobody would really care. He didn't care enough to live, and the others wouldn't care that he was dead. He'd thought plenty over who would care. The only person he could come up with was Japan, and Japan probably didn't like him much— not after the bombs and everything, anyway. Even if they'd talked a lot since, that still didn't mean Japan liked him, or would even be sad that he was gone.

America was satisfied with his list. He wasn't the sort of person to write, but ever since the Boston Tea Party, he'd felt that he could be an important primary source. So he'd started to keep track of every little thing that happened.

In the 1900s he'd tried to turn his writing in, tried to give it to a museum, but the museum had rejected it, explaining that nobody would understand why there were two hundred years of the same loopy handwriting, linked as a 'primary source'.

Writing had become a habit by then, so he just started to write about his day, every day, or at least when he remembered. And he kept it, even though most of his days weren't really all that important.

America imagined his list in one of thirty-four binders. The satisfaction dimmed to a low hum that disheartened him, and the little satisfied half-smile fell off his face. Nobody would read it. They wouldn't care if he was dead; why would they care about when he was alive?

He lifted the gun again. His phone rang again. America felt a bit annoyed, but he answered it anyway.

"Hi, America," France said.

"Hi, France. Why are you FaceTiming me?"

"Today is as good a day as any to help you reorganize your wardrobe," France proclaimed.

America sighed. "I'm not at home. I'm at a friend's house."

"Oh, okay. How are you today?" France asked, clearly not taking the hint that America wanted to be left alone.

"I'm fine, France." America was tired. Weight pulled at his eyelids. He'd get to sleep soon enough, he figured. Maybe he'd finally sleep well. "Just a bit tired. I didn't sleep well last night."

"I can tell." France frowned. "America, are you okay? You look a bit... how you say?... gaunt."

"Gaunt?" America echoed.

France took a deep breath. "To put it lightly, you look like shit." And America did look like shit. His hair had lost its shine, his eyes were watering, and he looked pale. "Have you been eating well?"

"Well enough," America replied.

"Ah, okay." France's frown deepened. "Perhaps I should come over one of these days and teach you how to make decent food, non?"

"I don't have any time. Sorry. I-I better go." America hanged up.

(Linebreak.)

America raised the—

His phone rang.

"Goddamnit!" He hissed. He answered it, though, and quickly calmed himself. He was growing frustrated, tears pricking his eyes. Why couldn't he just get it over with?

It was Prussia. He hadn't talked to Prussia in such a long time. Why should he start now?

He answered, reluctantly.

"He-y, Prussia," he said, voice wobbling a little. _I need to pull myself together_, he thought. But then again, it wouldn't matter soon anyway.

"Hey, America! I was just telling Germany how I helped you become such an awesome badass during the Revolutionary War, but he doesn't believe me! Will you confirm?"

America nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, sure." The last thing he wanted to think of was the past, but it was okay. He would just have to think a little, right? America took a deep breath. Germany, who had been looking over his shoulder, immediately looked concerned.

America closed his eyes for a moment, another, another, and then opened them to find them both staring at him. When he spoke, his voice was clear, steady— and he almost believed that he was, too. "Prussia helped train me so I could beat the shit out of England— with everyone else's help, of course," America said, smiling a little. Prussia had been insanely harsh, but it had been needed. "It was... _awesome_."

Prussia grinned. "Thanks, America!" He turned to Germany. "Now do you believe me?"

Germany and Prussia bantered for a bit, forgetting America was there. America's smile faded. He hanged up.

(Linebreak.)

America—

_Ping! _

He glared at his phone.

—raised the—

_Ping! _

He sighed. Whoever was texting him clearly wanted something, texting him more than once. He didn't want to die with the guilt of unanswered texts.

It was Canada. '_I'm really glad you're my brother,_' it read. Somehow, America couldn't imagine Canada's voice reading that.

The next text read, '_I just wanted to tell you that._'

America frowned. Why was Canada telling him this now?

Canada was still typing. _'I always wanted to be like you.' _

America grinned despite himself. _No you don't, _he typed back.

_'I do. But I'm glad I'm not you.'_

_Why's that? _

_'I get to look up to you. I can't imagine being you, and I don't want to. If I was like you, I'd still be me. It'd suck to know that you were anything like me.' _

America started typing, and then stopped, unsure of what to say.

_'I'm sorry. That sounds rude.' _Pause. _'You know, when I first wished I could be like you, it was when England introduced us. I thought Nantucket was really pretty.' _

_Really? _

_'Yeah. But that's besides the point. The second time I wished I could be like you was when you were being loud. England didn't pay attention to me, but he paid attention to you. I missed the attention I used to get from France, and how England just didn't care about me.' _

_I'm sorry. _

_'Anyway, I wanted to tell you something else.'_

_What is it? _

_'You're the person I talk to the most. I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have you.' _

America started typing. He hesitated sending it for a few moments, and then: _People would talk to you a lot more often if I wasn't around. _He pressed send.

(Linebreak.)

America practically shoved the gun into his mouth. Even now, he didn't dare turn his phone off.

His finger itched at the trigger. No dice. He tried again.

He'd shot plenty of guns before. Why was it so hard to shoot this one?

He always thought he'd be sad, that tears would be streaming down his dace and he'd say something dramatic, like, _"Goodbye cruel world_". But he just didn't fucking care.

He thought of what Canada had said. Of how England had thought of him, and how Prussia had been telling old stories, and France's wanting to teach him how to actually make food.

Of how Japan wanted to get back in touch.

Why had everyone called him today, of all days?

America took the gun out of his mouth. He left the motel, went to his car, started driving home. It was late.

He stopped at a fast-food place to get some food. He ate in the parking lot, for the first time in weeks relishing the feeling of food as opposed to emptiness. He continued driving home. He was so many miles away from his apartment in New York, which was exactly where he needed to go.

He entered the dark apartment and flicked on the lights. He went to his bedroom, where there was relatively little because he didn't stay there unless he had company. America had never wanted anyone in the mansion because it was furnished with a lot of old things that England had given him.

This newness, this normalcy, it was exactly what he needed.

He laid in his bedroom, curled up underneath the blankets. He thought of what Canada had texted him. He fell asleep.

(Linebreak.)

The next day, America drove back to his mansion. He'd bought groceries on the way home. He made a decent breakfast of toast, bacon, and eggs, and watched television as he ate.

America went to his room and grabbed a fresh sheet of paper. He wrote for a long time, just about everything— how he'd been feeling recently, what Canada had said, how weird the other day had been... anything he thought about, really.

He put it in his thirty-fourth binder and then called Japan. "Japan," he said. "I think I can clear up a few days of my schedule. When can you come over?"

**A review would be splendid. Have a good day and keep yourself safe. Make sure to stay at a decent temperature and to stay hydrated. **

**Remember that there are always plenty of resources out there. I'm American, so typically an American number would go here— but I, of course, do not know where my readers are from. I can only assume that if you read this entire thing, you can speak/write decently in English, so I'll mention a resource that's typically overlooked: The Samaritans. They're based in the UK, but they really can help you a lot, no matter where you're from. I believe they have branches in a few other countries, as well. **


End file.
